


The Affection

by thecipher



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bill is a maniac, Cannibalism, Dark, Dipper is a victim, Guro, M/M, Out of Character, hum!Bill, total!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecipher/pseuds/thecipher
Summary: He allowed himself an affection that has no place in his life, brought a man closer to himself, having no right to be near him.





	The Affection

This house attracted him immediately. Standing on the outskirts, at the edge of a dense pine forest, with peeled paint on wooden frames and creeping lianas of dried ivy, he seemed to be waiting for him to hospitably open the doors and let in like a lost child. The house was rustling, gleaming with joyous eyes, unwashed windows, and he decided that he was buying it.  
"When can I stay here?" - sounds calm and friendly; the girl from the agency rummages in a bag and rustles with some papers.  
"When you want," he puts a stack of documents in his hands. The female nails lead on the small font of the contract, a ringing voice interprets something about bank accounts, taxes and registration of the deed.  
"I'm paying cash," he smiles and puts on the documents a winding scribbler's signature.  
She does not hear a word more from him; her battered "corvette" sighs a cloud of gasoline smoke and hides behind the trees.  
He throws the papers on the side of the path, goes to the porch and looks for a long time in the dark failure behind the wide-open door.  
It seems to him that he is at home.  
He likes this feeling.

He chose this place for his privacy: in a tiny town in the northern forests, he is unlikely to be sought. Once he created himself an image of a gregarious animal, and the fools from FBI would probably wool large cities - Chicago, Houston, San Francisco, hoping to track down his tracks. But he deftly and beautifully deceived all, hiding in the outskirts of the forest in a house with a murky dark history.  
This was another reason to move here - that case of sixteen years ago caused a rustle in the newspapers. He saw the story on TV: a young lady in a beige cloak with a broken voice told of a terrible tragedy in a provincial town. Some unknown person cut out a whole family - at night, in their own house. He tied a man to a chair, plugged his mouth with a cloth dampened with a pipe cleaning liquid, and himself, before his eyes, amused himself with a woman and their little son, to a loud moaning of pain and horror. Then he dealt with them - cut his throats, like small lambs.  
The maniac was never found, and the house, abandoned and smelling of blood, acquired terrible rumors and fantasies about ghosts.  
He was not afraid of ghosts. The otherworldly, tickling nerves and imagination even attracted him.

In the house everything remained as before: a shabby carpet in the living room, whitewashed furniture in the southern style, dishwasher plates in the kitchen cupboard, transparent light curtains on the windows. He did not change anything, throw it away, bring something to his house. He liked to know that all these things bear the imprint of death, they store memories of the nightmare that devastated these walls.  
He was lying on the bed in the master bedroom and imagining how the murderer had sex with her victims on her, how the woman sobbed and fought, as the boy sobbed and writhed in pain. He imagined that on dusty linen there was still a smell of blood, sperm and animal horror.  
He felt excited.  
He liked it.  
One day he will bring a special guest here and make sure he does it with him.

In the housing agency, he asks to keep the purchase of the house in secret: - "I am engaged in important scientific work. I do not want to be disturbed ", - it sounds very convincing. He is always believed that whatever he spins. Play the role and appearance, and a soft confident voice, and a dazzling smile. He likes women, he is respected by men. He looks like a guy you can trust.  
He enjoys it.  
He is not disturbed, and he enjoys his solitude, occasionally diluted by trips to Eugene or Bon; from there he returns in high spirits and with brown spots on his clothes. Memories of the fun time spent and the stories of the criminal chronicle perfectly brighten his loneliness.  
For some time.

Another's presence is felt by the skin. From the toes to the tips of the eyelashes runs a spasm of tension - he does not hear, does not see, but feels that in his terrible house there was an unexpected and uninvited guest. He wanders somewhere downstairs - under his cautious steps creaky faded floorboards, doors with a soft creak open and let him into the abandoned rooms, full of dust and terrible past. The boarded-up door to the basement stops it with the cross of dark boards, the staircase to the second floor splits next to the cramped steps.  
He watches him from the master bedroom: he listens to every rustle, assesses, waits, sniffs danger.

He crawls off a bed of beds, smooths his disheveled hair, and quietly descends like an animal.  
Steps silently spring under his feet. A whitish light of a flashlight flashes in the corridor, and someone's fragile, uneven voice says to someone: "There's nobody here. In the kitchen, I found a jar of tonic, an empty cigarette pack and a newspaper for the past week. I think that there were homeless people or a band of Randy - they somehow boasted that they will get here and check to see if there are ghosts. "  
He stops at the dark wall, listens to this voice and grins. His guest came here alone, and this is just a telephone conversation or recording. Just about to be heard: "Diana, Diana, I'm Dale Cooper, special agent of the FBI, and I'm investigating from a haunted house."  
This gives him a new grin. He will fall off the wall with a black shadow and in two steps is in the kitchen.  
\- Alas, but there is only me here - the person turns around in front of him, delicately squeals and drops a flashlight on the floor. For a moment, a long white ray smears on it like phosphor paint, showing a small figure and open eyes.  
This is a very young guy, almost a boy.  
Disheveled, frightened and not at all dangerous.  
The darkness falls on them; they stand face to face, and do not consider - they try to feel each other, breathing almost in unison.  
He gropes for the switch, and a small light flashes in the small kitchen.

The guy sits opposite him while he carefully studies the contents of his backpack. Sparse: a spare flashlight, a battered notebook in a tight cover, a pencil, a half-empty bottle of water. In the inner pocket, a library ticket is found.  
His guest name is Dipper Pines. It's a stupid name.  
\- Who were you talking to? - He shoves the junk back and throws the backpack on the floor. He tries to speak calmly, but his voice is clearly irritated.  
\- With no one. This is a voice recorder.  
\- Give it to me.  
Dipper Pines throws a bewildered glance at him and puts on the table a smartphone with a cracked screen. - You have no right, - he tries to resent, protect himself and his things, but it looks very funny and pitiful.  
He finds the necessary record and erases it with one finger movement.  
"Did you have the right to break into someone else's house without an invitation?" Could I call the sheriff and we all talk about our rights together?  
Dipper Pines is nervous. Fingers with traces of bitten burrs convulsively cling to the tablecloth, the fear of future punishment stiffens in the eyes.  
He looks at him and for some reason remembers every dash: thick bruises under his eyes, pale mouth with fright, uncombed curls with stuck beaks, trembling Adam's apple on a tight neck.  
He bluffs - in his place only an idiot will call the sheriff, but the guy is afraid. Probably, he has strict parents, and he himself does not pull a night burglar.  
\- How did you get here?  
"Through the laundry." There the window is broken, I simply thrust my hand and pushed the bolt, and the door was open.  
\- What for?  
It looks like an interrogation: for complete similarity there is not enough bright white lamp to shine in the eyes and a guard with a revolver in his pocket.  
"I wanted to see the ghosts," Dipper Pines answers and looks away. - I did not know that someone lives here.  
\- No one knows. More precisely, I did not know. Now you know. And let's agree. "He reaches for the pack on the table, discovers that it is empty and throws it into a corner." I'm not calling the sheriff, and you're not telling anyone about me, are you? "  
Dipper Pines nods - tangled curls fall on the forehead, lying even large rings.  
The lamb, trapped in a wolf's lair.  
A good boy who will not tell anyone.

He looks at him and does not want to let go. The bed on the second floor had already cooled down, and this lamb would have warmed it up perfectly.  
But even a person like him has principles.  
First, he does not touch the children, and this Dipper Pines is almost a child.  
"There are no ghosts here," he says, before releasing him to a dark street. - No, and never was. Remember this well and do not come back here again, have you agreed?  
He gently pushes him in the back, and Dipper Pines almost rolls off the porch onto the needy yard.  
"This house ... it's creepy." Once in it people were killed. Are not you afraid to live here? He suddenly asks, turning around. In the brown eyes gleaming sincere interest and something similar to anxiety.  
Or does he think?  
"No," he replies, and pulls the corner of his mouth in a parody of a smile.  
In this house people were killed. That's why he chose it.

A sudden visit agitates him.  
He goes around the house, continually peeking out of the window, and then he leaves for Eugene and spends almost a week there.  
All this time he somehow thinks about Dipper Pines.  
Returning, he sees him on his porch - a stooped figure against the background of blue twilight. My knees are apart, my hands hang limp whips, my hair is still disheveled, a light jacket hangs with a bag.  
"I told you not to come here any more." As he leaves the car, he manages to carefully examine himself: are there any stains on clothes, clean nails, or something stuck to the soles of shoes. In the back seat there are bags with some food - he picks them up and swings to the house, experiencing a strange mixture of irritation with satisfaction.  
He does not like that Dipper Pines has come here again.  
He likes it.  
\- I'm sorry, - the figure brokenly jumps up from the steps, allowing him to pass, trails behind and almost clings to his back, breathing between the padded blades.  
On the spine runs a slight trembling, dying at the tailbone. A strange smell tickles the nose, clings to the clothes, settles on the hair and mixes with his own. Now he smells of tobacco, blood and pine-washed rain.  
From this mixture begins to feel dizzy.  
"It was not worth it," the voice sounds harsh and hoarse, like a chill. - And come back, too. Do not you have a suitable company for the evening? Do your parents even know where you're staggering?  
Dipper Pines looks over his shoulder and clumsily knees his feet on the uneven floor.  
\- No. I do not have a company. And my parents too.  
\- Here's how. It turns out that we have something in common with you.  
He turns around; fingers fall on the cheek that has cooled down on the street, slowly lead along the cheekbone to the temple, almost gently, in a fatherly way, they remove behind the ear a pair of curly braces. He tries to soften his gaze, drive out a hungry ravenous shine, hide the echoes of a dangerous excitement behind the golden green heat.  
Dipper Pines sighs and fleetingly clings to his palm, like a lonely lost animal.

He allows him to stay. He warms up a teapot, cuts thick sandwiches with toasted meat and offers him one.  
There is silence at the table. The conversation, already inanimate and strained, completely ceases to be glued. They are uncomfortable with each other, but at the same time it is good - it is read in short but expressive looks, occasionally encountered in the middle of a light yellow electric spot.  
He never needed intimate conversations.  
Dipper Pines hardly knew what to chat with a stranger.  
Their communication goes differently: the cups rise ever closer to each other, the fingers sneak over a bottle of mustard, the legs under the table creep closer and closer until the toes of the trampled sneakers do not rest against the sharp noses of leather shoes.  
These randomly non-random gestures tell each other much more than words.

He again takes out Dipper Pines, again orders him not to return, but already knows that he will come anyway, and he will wait for him.  
\- What is your name? - sounds uncertainly on the threshold, behind which a deep night blossoms violently and mysteriously.  
He has many names. In a secluded place, he keeps a whole bunch of false documents and every time is presented in a new way, but he, Dipper Pines, who looks at him with honest, open eyes, calls his real name.  
\- Bill.  
The palm stretched out for a naive handshake is cold and shaking.  
He touches it with his fingertips and catches a smile on his face, more like a grin of a dying animal.

***

On TV broadcast news specials. The brutal murder in Eugene. The unknown person stabbed thirteen stab wounds of a certain Rode Wang, stabbed his eyes and cut out the soft part of his thigh, taking with him.  
She called Chloe. An ordinary-looking girl with an ordinary face, she was boring, like last year's newspaper. But the sandwiches with her meat turned out to be quite tasty. Dipper Pines liked them.  
Dipper Pines. He whispers his name by syllables and feels inside the spasm of some unnatural joy.

***

They sit on the porch of his "creepy" house. On the forest and empty highway descend viscous-gray, like a moldy raid, twilight.  
His shoulder touches someone else's - narrow and angular, lowered under the weight of a spacious jacket. Ruffled curls curl next to his cheek, occasionally tickling the skin, when the wind ponders to play with them. Dipper Pines smells moist from the rain forest, warm milk, and something elusively pleasant, which he can not give a name.  
He breathes his scent, throwing back his head, and feels something like pacification.  
It represents the depth and strength of this smell between the collarbone, in the armpits, in the pit of the fry belly and on the inside of the thigh, where the skin is so thin that it bursts from one cut. He wants to get soaked in it, mix it with the aroma of blood and drink, furiously moving his Adam's apple, until full saturation, to nausea.

Dipper Pines comes to him almost every night with the devotion of a tamed, homeless dog. He has long ceased to drive him away, taking these visits for granted and something inevitable.  
He wants to ask: "Why are you coming? What do you want? ", But he never asks, somewhere in the depths of himself, guessing about the reason.  
Dipper Pines is full of problems. They dye the skin under his eyes in a bluish-gray color, shyly look out from under their sleeves with pink scars, wink red rubs on their hands.  
Here he hides from them, as in a dark corner where a terrible monster lives - the only one who can save him from the monsters of the real world.  
Does he know that he can make the problem more serious when he comes here?  
Their strange acquaintance was over a couple of months, and his principles have long given up positions under the pressure of the proximity of this half-child.  
Dipper Pines seventeen is too little.  
But when he lies on the dusty cheese underwear in the cold bedroom and remembers his smell, he starts to think that it's just right.

It's becoming more difficult to keep yourself in hand.  
Following Eugene, he explores new cities and new ways to relieve tension.  
Criminal reports are exploding with bombs of new sensations: the wave of murders is spreading all over the state. Bon, Saylem, Medford, Springfield; victims poke their eyes, plant throats, open chest cells and crumble organs into a bloody mess. They cut out soft tissues, half kidneys and porous lungs, take out the liver and heart, or simply change the interiors in places, like an irregular mosaic.  
The investigation is conducted all over the country: a couple of times he hears one of his names and smiles thinly, listening to how a well-known unknown maniac is compared to him.  
Human stupidity and own cunning cause a fit of amusement in him.  
He turns off the TV and goes to feed the dogs living in the forest, leaving the most tidbits for another, a two-legged puppy.

He treats him with meat sandwiches and smiles, watching the food disappear in his mouth.  
Murders are a way of keeping oneself in hand, an opportunity to splash out what he can not do with him, on others.  
Food is an expression of an ugly, unnatural sympathy for him.  
They sit on the porch of his "terrible" house and are silent, talking in the language of looks and touches.  
In the eyes of Dipper Pines there is an ocean of gratitude.  
He stands at the very edge and keeps himself out of his last strength, so as not to make a step forward.

There is a tension between them; The daily silence stretches like a bloody trail, conversations without words become dangerously frank.  
On the torn creaking steps, in the kitchen with the remnants of the dinner, in the living room with the motley carpet and the crocked sofa, their hands are increasingly meeting and intertwining with each other, gently pressing their palms together. Deeper eyes look, lips smoother, clothes shiver under the clothes when their shoulders or hips come into contact with a carefully thought-out accident. Lonely phrases breaking a ringing, like a string, silence, do not violate, but emphasize their silent intimacy, inviting them to plunge into it again, like a dark lake.  
At the corner of Dipper Pines's mouth, a drop of a barbecue sauce from the roast was eaten. It is like blood; he looks at her and pulls himself away, forbidding even to think about erasing this drop - with a finger pad, palm, tongue, imagining that this is the blood of him, this lamb with innocent eyes full of trust and expectation.  
He tries to hide behind the wall of his principles and feels like it collapses when Dipper Pines reaches out to him, puts his head in his hand and touches his wrist with wet, trembling lips.

***

That same night, he breaks down and leaves for Forest Grove, away from his refuge and Dipper Pines.  
A guy with a gas station just needs one charming smile and five dollars to go with him.  
For the first time he forgets about caution and roughly fucks him, stopping his squealing mouth and taking everything that has accumulated in him during these months. He does it sweepingly, quickly, tearing someone else's stubborn ass and thinking, desperately thinking about Dipper Pines.  
Finally, he calls out his name and cuts the other's throat with a blade of a wide knife in one movement.  
He violates his second principle - not to rape victims.  
It remains to raze the ruins of the first and wait.

***

Dipper Pines is waiting for him near the locked door. He almost comes on him, curled up on a frosty porch, tired of waiting.  
He allows himself to be examined, eat hungry, dreary eyes, and too late recalls that his clothes are dirty with blood, that traces of foreign teeth are pressed into his outstretched palm, and the handle of the knife, which he forgot to throw out in the woods, is looking out of his sleeve.  
Dipper Pines takes his hand and presses it against his cheek, keeping all the same hungry but already painfully joyful eyes from him.  
"I know everything," he says slowly.  
\- For a long time? - he does not even need to invent some kind of fiction, completely helpless in the face of obvious truth. The palm slides down, falls on a narrow shoulder and squeezes it, absorbing a large tremor.  
\- From the first day. I'm watching criminal news. You showed ... and yesterday, too. They are looking for you.  
\- Yes.  
A shadow of doom, of humility before the inevitable end runs through their faces. They stand in the doorway of the house, smelling of the old smell of blood and death, look into each other's eyes and do not say anything else.  
He wants to ask: "If you knew, then why did you come back? Did not you realize that you will not get out of here alive if I guess that you know? "  
He wants to ask, but he does not ask, he does not say a word.  
He embraces Dipper Pines's face with dry hot hands and presses his forehead against him, stopping breathing.

***

Maybe he knew in advance that everything would end here. Especially settled in this house, purposely allowed this boy to come to him, deliberately let himself go, throwing in this strange wrong connection.  
He allowed himself an affection that has no place in his life, let a man to his place, having no right to be near him.  
And maybe it happened, because it should have been - just so and now.  
Dipper Pines looks at him from under his brows, hugs him with weak scratched hands and presses his lips to his lips, leaving them with a taste of frenzied, deadly despair.

***

He has represented so many times how he takes off his clothes with his skin, kisses the damp red meat, leads the tongue between the squashed air of the lungs and touches a frantically pounding heart. He wanted to drown in his smell, drown himself in wet rainy pines, milk and spicy blood, bathing his face in the open body, he wanted to feel it with every nerve and slowly, collecting all the particles of the human, to assign it, to the very end, flickering with a spark of light The tip of the knife.  
He thought about it, killing in Eugene, Bon and Springfield, he twisted it in his head, coming home, dreaming, feeling next to someone else's warmth and careful touch of hands.  
But I did not believe that this could happen.

Dipper Pines reaches for his sleeve, takes out the knife and puts it in his hand. Sam lays down on the bed with dirty underwear and pulls off his clothes, casually throwing it on the trampled floor.  
He looks at him with bated breath, and nervously bites his parched lips.  
The lamb ascends to the altar of his abnormal affection and gives himself up as a sacrifice.  
He silently hovers over him, swallows a bitter intermittent breath and gently leaves a long red trace on his skin.

They kiss like crazy, biting and gnawing their mouths, licking the blood on their lips, as if the siren of a police car are already howling outside the window, and they have only a few minutes to belong to each other. Hands run wildly and greedily over the skin, nails dig into their backs and hips, marking them with swollen bands, teeth tearing their shoulders, crackling on their ribs and collarbones, their hair mingling and tangling in knots, crawling out of the roots of every sharp movement. Dipper Pines suffocates, curls beneath him, opens himself up to the cramps in his legs, presses to him and sobs into his wet, artificial shoulder, meeting every movement inside his narrow, hot body. The bed beneath them becomes wet with sweat and blood, plaintively sighs with rusty springs, echoing every sigh and groaning, tearing to tatters.  
He moves in an insane rhythm, hoarsely howls into the bend of someone else's shoulder, bites into it and frowns from the growing delight inside, deafening like an explosion. He kisses his face wet with sweat and tears, collects blood from his lips and tells Dipper Pines how long he dreamed about it, how much he wanted it and how he took his thirst for others, shredding their bodies in a sticky, ugly mess. He caresses his hands and the blade of the knife, looks into his eyes and sees in them the same ecstasy and reflection of his sick, abnormal, doomed to death attachment.

Dipper Pines catches his wrist, holds him by a heart that's beating wildly, and with a quiet, moaning groan, moves forward, chest and thighs, taking him along with a wide sharp blade - all the way to the very end.  
After that he stroked his face with bitter tenderness, gently closes his extinct eyes and realizes what exactly Dipper Pines came to him.  
That's exactly what he wanted.  
They both wanted the same thing.

***

The bread crust dries on the kitchen table. On an empty plate, the red sauce drips and covers with cracks, a dead fly drowns in the tea wrapped in foil.  
He draws a transparent curtain, sits near the window and waits.  
Alone.  
Dipper Pines lies at the first floor - the bed beneath him was soaked with blood, the open chest radiates into the ceiling with slippery wings of ribs. On the dead lips, a blissful smile of happiness is shaking.  
He emasculated it, gathered it up to a piece and kept it inside - the stomach pulls a pleasant weight, which contains much more than just satiety.  
Dipper Pines absorbed it into the hair, enveloped the cocoon of taste and smell, forever appropriating himself, as he locked it in his body, never to let go.  
They gave each other what they had to give.  
And only so they could be together.

To his "creepy" house drove up three police cars and a minibus with a group of special purposes. He watches people get out of them and surround his home with a tight ring, hears someone's voice, loudly calling him by name through the loudspeaker.

***

"That's all," he says, and goes out into the street.  
Inside, heat is spreading and a tranquil serene calm.


End file.
